The last remaining horse collapsed to the ground. Though still breathing, it could no longer stand.

Aegor looked south toward the faint outline of the Wall and then glanced over his shoulder at the forest behind them. Finally, he sank down onto the snow, utterly spent.

Ten days had passed since that horrifying night, the night they encountered the White Walkers. For ten days and nights, Aegor and Gary had been on the run. In that time, they had slept no more than a few scattered hours. Exhaustion weighed on them like iron chains, their bodies and minds on the brink of collapse. Aegor wanted nothing more than to lie in the snow and let the weariness take him.

But the end was near. The Great Wall loomed only a few leagues to the south. They would make it, they had to make it. By tonight, they would sleep behind the safety of the Wall.

The escape hadn’t been easy. Fleeing the White Walkers had been just the beginning of their troubles. Supplies were limited on patrols north of the Wall. Each member of their doomed group had carried part of what they needed. Waymar, the leader, had kept the lightest but most valuable supplies: dried meat and floss. Aegor’s horse had carried blankets and spare clothes. Gary’s mount had been laden with bread, and Will had brought oats for feeding the horses.

When two horses were lost, the first killed by the White Walkers and the second fleeing into the night. Aegor and Gary had been left with only half their provisions. Food, warmth, and survival were now in short supply. Horses, unlike wild animals, could not live on snow and grass alone. Without oats to sustain them, Gary’s horse had faltered first, collapsing from hunger and fatigue after two days.

Aegor’s mount had lasted longer, though he suspected that was only because he weighed less than Gary.

The solution had been both brutal and practical: they killed the first horse, butchered it for meat, and split the last of their bread between themselves and the remaining horse. Carrying only the barest essentials—food, weapons, and blankets, they had continued south on foot, leading the horse until it, too, finally gave out.

Now the poor beast lay gasping in the snow, its body trembling as it struggled to rise.

Gary let out a long sigh, his breath misting in the icy air. He unslung his sword and began removing the gear from the horse’s back.

Aegor, leaning against a tree and catching his breath, frowned in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Ending it,” Gary replied gruffly, raising his sword.

“What? You’re going to kill it?” Aegor’s exhaustion momentarily gave way to disbelief. “It’s gotten us this far—kept us alive. It’s half a day to the Wall. Even if it has to crawl, it might make it!”

Gary snorted and shook his head. “You planning to go back to Castle Black?”

“Where else would we go?” Aegor shot back, irritation flaring. He was too tired for riddles.

Gary stared at him for a long moment before speaking. “I’m heading south. Over the Wall.”

“Over the Wall?” Aegor blinked, stunned. “What do you mean? You can’t just… bypass the Wall. Commander Mormont would never allow that.”

“The Lord Commander doesn’t have eyes everywhere.” Gary’s voice was low but firm. “At the far western end of the Wall, there’s a canyon—natural, deep, and wide. The builders of the Wall decided it was secure enough on its own, so they didn’t bother extending the fortifications across it. Instead, they built a stone tower on the south side and hung an iron chain bridge across the gap. It’s called West Bridge Watch.”

Aegor frowned, suspicion creeping in. “And you think it’s unguarded?”

“Of course not. The bridge has been sealed for years, and men from the Shadow Tower patrol it to keep the wildlings out. But that’s only a problem for a large group. The two of us, traveling light? We can climb down into the canyon, cross the bottom, and scramble up the far side.” Gary’s expression was grim. “It’s dangerous, but we can make it.”

“And then what?” Aegor demanded. “Once we’re south of the Wall, what’s your plan?”

Gary shrugged. “Take it one step at a time.”

“Take it one step at a time?” Aegor repeated, incredulous. “We’re rangers. If we run, we’ll be deserters. You know what happens to deserters!”

“You don’t get it, kid,” Gary interrupted sharply. “Waymar Royce is dead. He was a noble.”

“We didn’t kill him,” Aegor protested weakly.

“It doesn’t matter!” Gary snapped. “In the eyes of the nobles, it might as well be the same thing. A superior officer dies, and the men under him survive? The blame always rolls downhill. It doesn’t matter what we say, no one will believe us. White Walkers? They’ll laugh in our faces.”

Aegor swallowed hard. “What do you think they’ll do to us?”

Gary’s lips twisted bitterly. “At best? They’ll brand us cowards. At worst, they’ll decide we’re deserters and execute us. The Royce family will want justice for their son. His father’s a lord of the Vale, one of the oldest and most powerful families in Westeros. Even the Starks have to show them respect. Do you really think Commander Mormont can protect us if the Royces demand answers?”

Aegor fell silent. He hadn’t thought of that. Gary’s words rang painfully true.

The Royces were a powerful family, even if their role in the larger politics of Westeros had been minimal lately. Aegor could still recall the battle in the original story when Sansa brought the Vale knights to help Jon Snow reclaim Winterfell. Most of those soldiers had come at the behest of Waymar’s father, Yohn Royce. The Royce family commanded respect and power. If they wanted someone to blame for their son’s death, two Night’s Watch rangers would make easy targets.

Aegor didn’t know if Gary was exaggerating. Although he’d been here for nearly a year, he came from a world that championed equality for all. To be honest, he had no idea just how much power and influence nobles wielded in this world. Still, he knew one thing, no matter how much the great houses were manipulated by schemers like Littlefinger and Varys, dealing with a small Night’s Watch deserter would be child’s play for them.

No wonder the survivors of the original patrol trio had to run.

Now the question was this: in the original story, the survivors of the patrol who crossed the Wall ended up being executed by Eddard Stark. Aegor didn’t think that, as a stranger to this world with no allies or sense of direction, he could avoid that fate by tagging along with Gary. Should he return to Castle Black and face judgment, or try to flee south? To put it more simply: should he entrust his fate to the Night’s Watch, or take control of it himself?

“Even if the Lord Commander spares us, we’ll still be marked men. The next time there’s a dangerous, suicidal mission, guess whose names will come up first?” Gary added, voicing another compelling reason to escape. “And don’t forget, Benjen Stark will definitely lead men north to find out whether the White Walkers really exist. If they don’t chop our heads off, you can bet we’ll be dragged along as guides and cannon fodder. I’ve been on the Wall for forty years. I know these officers. I can predict what kind of shit they’re going to pull before they even drop their pants.”

Aegor couldn’t argue with that. Gary had a point. In the original story, Benjen Stark did indeed lead a search party north to look for Waymar, only to disappear himself. And even if Aegor survived another patrol, he knew what came next: the Lord Commander would lead a full expedition beyond the Wall to find Benjen. Then came the wildling invasion, and after that, the White Walkers besieging the Wall.

What chance did someone like him an ordinary man who’d only just learned to ride a horse and swing a sword stand against all of that? Surviving crisis after crisis wasn’t something he could count on.

There was no time to plan for the long term. He had to leave the Night’s Watch as soon as possible. If nothing else, fleeing with Gary seemed like the best choice.

It was a shame, though. The horse that had carried him through life-and-death situations, that had survived the White Walkers’ swords alongside him, would likely become his food on the road to desertion.

Just as he was about to make up his mind, the horse, which had been lying on the ground in exhaustion, began to grunt uneasily. It struggled to its feet as if sensing Gary’s intent to end its life. The old soldier raised his sword, ready to deliver a quick blow, but suddenly froze, his expression shifting.

“What’s that sound?” Gary muttered.

“Don’t mess with me,” Aegor said, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Gary hushed him with a sharp gesture, and the two fell completely still, straining to pick up on the subtle noises in their surroundings.

The whistling wind and the rustling of branches formed the ever-present background hum of the wilderness. Beyond that, there was nothing but their own breathing, their own heartbeats, and the uneven panting of their exhausted horse. But gradually, another sound emerged, soft at first, almost imperceptible, but growing louder and clearer with every second. It was a rhythmic thudding, dull and repetitive.

Hoofbeats.

The sound was unmistakable. Horse hooves striking thin snow. After days of travel, they’d grown familiar with that noise.

But their horse was right here, standing unsteadily beside them. So whose horse could it be?

Was it Waymar’s mount, spooked and now returning? Or was it…?

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep